


The Second Hand Unwinds

by Tenillypo



Category: The Lost World (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Caves, Dinosaurs, Emotional Baggage, F/M, First Kiss, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 06:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenillypo/pseuds/Tenillypo
Summary: When a cursed jewel causes Marguerite to switch places with her younger self, she and Roxton begin to see each other in a new light.
Relationships: Marguerite Krux/John Roxton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Second Hand Unwinds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mari4212](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mari4212/gifts).



### 1919

"Damn it, Marguerite!"

Roxton knocked a branch out of the way with more force than was probably necessary, letting it snap backward without holding it for her. Marguerite ducked out of the way, rolling her eyes. 

"Don't bellow at me," she told him. "How was _I_ supposed to know that diamond was their sacred stone?"

Roxton threw his arms up. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that it was in their sacred temple?"

In hindsight, yes, that had been a bit of a clue. Not that she'd ever admit as much to Roxton, not when the man was determined to be in such a snit about it. 

"Buried in an enormous pile of rocks and junk. They weren't even using it!" She folded her arms across her chest. "Anyway, they've got it back now, no harm done, so I don't know what the big deal is."

Roxton stopped short, whirling to face her. "The big deal is that we could have made a deal with them for shelter for the night, not to mention those herbs Summerlee has been looking for." He shook his head. "I don't know how your selfishness can still surprise me, but somehow you keep finding new ways to outdo yourself."

Marguerite stiffened. Of all the insufferable, judgmental, holier-than-thou— "Well, I would hate to disappoint you by failing to live down to your low opinion," she said as sweetly as possible.

Roxton took a deep breath. The disgust on his face didn't sting nearly as hard as the disappointment. But after a long moment, he only said, "There's a clearing up ahead. We'll camp there for the night." He tossed his pack at her and she caught it with a grunt. "Set up the tent. I'm going to go gather some firewood."

"Yes, sir, lord Roxton, sir," she snapped, dropping the pack and saluting. Roxton's face tightened even more, but he visibly reigned in whatever new insult was brewing in that big, fat self-righteous head of his, and stomped off without another word. 

Marguerite waited until the sound of his movements through the brush had faded a bit, then slipped her hand into her pocket. The tiny red gem from the temple that no one had missed was still there. At least she had _something_ to show from this miserable day. 

She seriously considered not putting up the tent just to spite him, but it was getting close to dusk and in the end, self-preservation and the desire for a warm bed outweighed pettiness. 

As it was, she only barely managed to finish before Roxton came back, arms full of wood, just as the sun is setting. He didn't thank her, naturally, just set about making up the fire without a word. 

"I don't suppose you found anything to eat while you were out scavenging," she ventured, adding in a mutter, "You were gone long enough."

"Why, as a matter of fact, I found a nine course feast," Roxton said, turning away from the fire to reach into his pack. "But it was back at the village you had us thrown out of, so you'll have to make do with berries and raptor jerky." He took a piece and dropped the packet of jerky on her lap.

Marguerite suppressed a grimace. After two months, she'd had enough raptor jerky to last a lifetime. The foul stuff was tough on the teeth and even tougher on her stomach, which Roxton knew. 

"Problem?" he asked, taking a bite.

Marguerite smiled. "Delicious," she said, and ripped into the jerky with extra relish. 

The rest of the meal passed in merciful silence, until Roxton stood. "Best get to sleep. We'll start out at first light."

"Fine by me," Marguerite called after his retreating back, then muttered, "The sooner this trip is over, the better."

She briefly considered staying up anyway just to spite him, but the jungle noises from outside the fire's comforting ring of light were suddenly much more sinister alone in the dark. 

Roxton grunted as she squeezed inside the tiny tent. "Did you put out the fire?"

"No, I thought I'd leave it up like a beacon for every dinosaur in the vicinity."

"Marguerite."

"Yes, it's out!" she snapped. "Happy?"

"Oh, perfectly," he said, "what could be better than this?" 

She shifted, searching in vain for a position that could make the hard ground comfortable.

"Stop wiggling," Roxton ordered. "Go to sleep."

"I would, if every rock on this blasted plateau wasn't poking me."

"Really? Feels fine over here."

She sat up on one elbow, looking over at him in the dark. "Shove over, then."

"No."

"Roxton! I can't sleep like this."

"Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you got us kicked out of our lodgings for the night."

Marguerite rolled her eyes. It was less satisfying when he couldn't see her. "Oh, very mature, Lord Roxton. Such chivalry!" 

His only response was pointedly rolling so his back was to her. Marguerite flopped back down, suppressing a scream, and made sure to jab him a few times with her elbow as she settled into a position with the least rocks jabbing into her back.

The icy silence from the other side of the bed roll felt louder than any jungle cacophony. She went to sleep fingering the red gem and thinking longingly of her bed at the treehouse. 

### 1923

When she woke up, the gem was still in her hand, but she _was_ in bed at the treehouse. Except it wasn't her bed. Marguerite opened her eyes, stretching, and then froze. Because not only was she in the treehouse when she distinctly remembered falling asleep in the forest a good five hours away, but this was Roxton'sbed, in Roxton's room.

And if she wasn't greatly mistaken, that was Roxton himself, laying shirtless on the other side of the bed.

At her movement, he made a sleepy sound and rolled over, sliding a familiar hand across her stomach. "Good morning," he murmured, eyes still closed. 

One of his legs brushed hers underneath the blankets and it was very clear he had no clothes on at all. And in fact, neither did she.

Marguerite began to panic, very quietly.

This was a dream, it had to be a dream. But she couldn't remember ever having a dream this vivid. Or, if she was honest, this pleasant. For a moment, she was tempted to just stay in bed and see how it played out. 

But what if it wasn't a dream? Her breath caught. What if she wasn't actually lying next to Roxton, but hallucinating him while some disgusting creature prepared to devour her in her stupor? Stranger things had certainly happened on this godforsaken plateau. No, she had to figure out what was going on.

She had a moment of panic about getting out of bed naked, pointless as that might be. This Roxton, whether he was a hallucination or a dream or some other figment of the plateau, was clearly already familiar with everything there was to see. But when she turned her head to the side, there was a chemise on the chair beside the bed— _her_ chemise, she realized after a second, recognizing the pattern of stitching along the collar, though it was marred by a tear along the edge of the neck that she didn't remember. But no matter, in dreams, anything was possible. She eased herself out from under his arm, quickly sitting up and sliding the chemise over her head as she stood.

"Leaving so soon?" She turned to find Roxton squinting up at her, face sleeplined and open, vulnerable in a way she'd never seen before. His hair was rumpled and—shorter?—than it had been when they'd gone to sleep the night before. "The others won't be back for hours. I thought we might sleep in and enjoy the time to ourselves for once." 

She forced a laugh. "Nature calls."

For a second, she thought he might argue, but Roxton merely closed his eyes again. "Mm… hurry back then."

Marguerite let out the breath she'd been holding and slipped out of the room. The rest of the treehouse was quiet. It seemed likely the others—if there were actually any others in this strange hallucination—were actually gone, just as Roxton had said. Dawn was just breaking over the trees, leaving her enough light to find her way to her own room. 

Here, things were more familiar. Marguerite's clothes were strewn about, perhaps not exactly in the same places she'd left them, but just as messily. Her jewelry box was sitting atop the dresser, filled with pieces she remembered, as well as a few she didn't. And her journal was on the bedside table.

Marguerite gingerly picked it up. Like the chemise, it was a little more worse for wear than last she'd seen it the day before. And, she noticed as she flipped through, much more full. She hurriedly skimmed a few entries. The ones at the beginning were familiar, but the ones further on detailed events that had never happened. 

Or rather, she realized, staring at the dates in shock, things that hadn't happened _yet_. 

With shaky fingers, she flipped to the last entry, dated March 12, 1923:

_Dear Marguerite,_

_I know what you are thinking while reading this, because I had the very same thoughts myself when it happened to me, nearly three and a half years ago now. You have not gone mad and you are not dreaming. We've switched places, you and I, courtesy of the sacred stone you stole. And we will switch back again before the night is through. If you cannot yet trust anyone other than yourself, trust me. The experience will do you no harm, and perhaps quite a bit of good. Relax and try to enjoy it._

_M_

It was her handwriting, down to each distinctive swoop of the pen. Marguerite gaped for a moment. "Well, if I have gone mad," she finally murmured, "then at least I've been creative about it."

She turned to the mirror, examining her face closely. Were there differences? Not that she could tell from her face. Perhaps an extra laugh line here and there? But then from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a mark on her arm, a jagged scar that most definitely had not been there the night before. A quick but thorough examination found another one on her left thigh and a truly ugly pair of markings on her back and abdomen—almost as if at some point, she'd been run through.

Marguerite shivered, eyes drifting back to the journal. If this was truly real and not some strange dream, then three years on the plateau had already taken a deadly toll. What dangers could her journal warn her to avoid?

She flipped backward until she reached the last entry she remembered, and then hesitated. If this _was_ all real, then would it be cheating to read ahead any more than she already had?

A hand came down on her shoulder and she jumped, dropping the journal. "Here I am, waiting for you to come ravish me and you're head down in a book?" Roxton murmured, warm and teasing. His other arm came around her middle and pulled her gently back against his chest. Marguerite swallowed. He'd taken the time to pull on breeches before coming to find her, but not much else, and it left little to the imagination.

"I was just thinking about the past," Marguerite said, attempting to sound casual. "Do you remember that time several years ago when I accidentally misplaced the Salusa tribe's diamond?"

"When you stole their sacred stone and nearly got us run out on a rail, you mean? How could I forget. You nursed me so tenderly," he said, a low rumble in her ear before bending further to kiss her neck.

Marguerite gasped, eyes darting down to the journal on the floor. She _definitely_ should have read ahead. 

"Are you hungry?" she blurted. "I was thinking about breakfast."

Roxton pulled back. "Offering to cook in lieu of more pleasant activities?" he said, coming around to face her. "Who are you and what have you done with Marguerite Krux?" His voice was teasing, but his eyes had sharpened. She had his full attention now.

She put on her best flirting smile, the one she'd used successfully on so many marks in the past. "You should know by now, I always perform better on a full stomach."

"Oh, I've never found your performance to be lacking," Roxton said with a devastating smile, and she felt inexplicably warm. She expected more of an argument, but after a moment, he merely bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Except maybe in the kitchen. I'll get breakfast. You just relax."

Marguerite let out the breath she'd been holding as soon as he was gone, pulling on her silk robe with more force than was strictly necessary. _Relax_ , he said. As if there was any possibility of that in this mad future—a future where she'd acquired hideous scars instead of the ouroboros. A future where she'd apparently wasted three years in the jungle conning Lord John Roxton into falling in love with her.

Oh, it's not like she hadn't considered it before. She had eyes, after all. The man was handsome enough, in a rugged sort of way. When he wasn't being infuriating or condescending. But this? How could she have decided even the Roxton estate was worth throwing away the key to her past? 

Unless… a terrible possibility occurred to her—what if she _had_ found the ouroboros and discovered its legendary powers were just that: legendary? What if after all that work and sacrifice, she was trapped here playing house with a man who could never truly know or understand her?

A man who was currently humming in the kitchen while he cooked her breakfast. 

It was all so distressing that it wasn't until much later that she spared a thought for the phrase _switched places,_ meaning of course that this time's Marguerite had no doubt woken up on that hard tent floor, living _her_ life.

### 1919

The anger that sent him to sleep so heated had not disappeared overnight, but it had at least cooled a bit when Roxton awoke the next morning. 

Enough that when the first stirrings of dawn lit the sky, he rolled over prepared to be conciliatory if Marguerite would allow it—if only to make the last leg of their journey slightly more palatable. Perhaps he would even make some breakfast before she woke up; no difficult task given her habit of always managing to sleep until just after the morning chores had been done.

He was _not_ prepared to roll over and find her already awake, leaning on one elbow and staring at him with an inscrutable expression. Something about the pose said she'd been at it for a while.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning," he replied, feeling strangely wrong-footed. "A bit early for you, isn't it?"

She shrugged, still watching him. "Couldn't sleep."

Roxton felt a stab of regret, remembering her complaints the night before. Of course, his side of the tent had not actually been much better, but she had been right to accuse him of being less than a gentleman in his behavior, no matter the provocation. The damned woman just had a way of bringing out the worst in him, every time. 

The knowledge made him irritable again, and he almost wished she would pick another fight, just to wash away the regret. But all she did was stare at him. After a few moments, he asked, slightly testy, "Is there something on my face?"

"Nothing a couple minutes with a razer couldn't fix," she replied, then reached out and took his chin in hand, running two fingers across his bristled cheek. Roxton froze in shock. "I'd forgotten how young you were," she murmured, as if to herself.

That snapped Roxton out of whatever spell she was casting. "I don't know what you're playing at," he said, jerking out of her grip and heaving himself up out of the blankets "but if you're awake, then you might as well make yourself useful for once and stoke up the fire. I'll go see about catching us a fish for breakfast."

He expected a howl of indignation, but all he got were those cool, watchful eyes on his back as he left the tent.

When he came back bearing two small fish, the fire was going strong and the tent was packed away. Marguerite was just pouring a cup a coffee, which she handed to him in exchange for the fish, proceeding to thread them onto a sharpened stick to roast without a hint of complaint.

"Problem?" she asked, catching his look of disbelief.

"Not at all," he said, taking a cautious sip of the coffee. It wasn't bad. "Just wondering what the catch is."

"No catch. Can't a lady do something nice without getting the third degree?"

"A lady can. Not so sure about you."

Marguerite sighed. "So suspicious." She turned to face him. "Fine. Then consider this an apology of sorts." He laughed, a bit incredulously. "What?"

"Nothing," Roxton told her truthfully. "I just don't think I've ever heard you apologize before."

A strange expression crossed her face. "Poor Roxton. I have been difficult, haven't I?"

Her sudden sincerity caught him off guard for the third time that morning, and he felt a hot burn of shame once more. She was clearly trying, and the least he could do was make the same effort. "Hmm. Well. Nothing I can't handle," he said, voice more gruff than he'd intended.

Marguerite only smiled. "In that, you have my complete confidence, Lord Roxton."

Marguerite remained quiet and watchful as they headed out, although now she was watching the jungle around them. 

"Looking for something in particular?" Roxton finally asked. 

There wasn't much to see. They'd been traveling on a downward track all morning, finally reaching the bottom of the valley a short time ago. The rocky cliff to their left was too steep to climb at this point, while the jungle to their right was too dense to see through. Up ahead, he knew, it would narrow into the short ravine they'd passed through on the way here before widening again into the larger jungle and the way to the treehouse. With any luck, they could be home before lunch.

"Yes," she said absently, "only it's a bit tricky, because I've only ever heard about this part second hand."

"What?"

She shook her head as if coming out of a daze. "Nothing," she said, smiling at him. "Let's just keep moving before that rain gets here."

He looked around. The morning had dawned bright and blue, and though the weather on the plateau could certainly be changeable, the only clouds were far on the horizon. "What rain? There's hardly a cloud in the sky."

"Call it a feeling," Marguerite said. "Woman's intuition."

Three hours later, it was pouring.

"Woman's intuition, huh?" Roxton shouted over the pounding of the rain. They were huddled under a narrow outcrop, already soaked to the bone in the brief time between the skies opening and seeking this temporary shelter.

But instead of gloating, Marguerite appeared to be preoccupied by pulling at the vines along the rockface behind them.

"What on earth are you doing?" he demanded.

"There's an opening back here," she said, ripping a handful of vines away to reveal a narrow gap, barely large enough for a person. She sagged against the rock, looking relieved. "I think it's a cave. Thank God."

Roxton blinked. Marguerite was often excited by the prospect of treasure or a way off the plateau that might be found in caves, but this was a little much, even for her. "Is now really the time to go exploring?"

She shot him an exasperated look. "No, I think we should wait out the storm inside."

He considered, then shook his head. "We've no idea what's in there or how long this will last. I'd rather get a wet than meet some other beastie using it for shelter. I say we press on." 

"Roxton, please—"

"For goodness sake, Marguerite! Can't you bear a little discomfort?" he snapped, feeling a bit exasperated himself, but Marguerite's crestfallen look pulled him up short. It had been a hard few days, after all. And for all her frequent complaints about hardship, she was surprisingly tough. He forgot sometimes that she had actual limits like anyone else. He softened, reaching out to smooth a reassuring hand down her sodden arm. "Once we're through the ravine, it's only an hour to the treehouse and then we'll be warm and dry with a good cup of tea for our troubles."

Marguerite barked out a bitter sounding laugh. "Fine," she said, shouldering her wet pack. "Fine, I tried."

Roxton shook his head, following her back out into the downpour. The woman was an utter mystery and a trial on his patience, as usual. But damned if he couldn't stop himself from caring anyway.

The rockface curved and suddenly the ravine loomed before them. "There, you see!" Roxton told her. "We'll be home before you know it."

But Marguerite looked grim. "Let's just get this over with."

When they'd passed this way before, the path had been bright and dry. Now it was so overcast, he could barely see the rocks he was tripping over, and the ground was rapidly turning to mud. Roxton grimaced as he tugged his foot out of the muck with a little more force than he'd like. Perhaps it _wouldn't_ have hurt to wait a little while in Marguerite's cave, though he'd never admit as much to her.

Suddenly, a familiar roar split the sky, followed by another ominous rumble from above.

Roxton eyed the cliff above. "Maybe it was thunder." 

"No," Marguerite said flatly. "It wasn't." 

A T-Rex up at the top was infinitely better than a T-Rex down in the ravine with them, but the last thing they needed was several tons of angry lizard stomping around on all that loosened mud. And indeed, the slope of the ridge was starting to show a worrying lack of stability. 

"Oh, I don't like the look of that," he said.

Marguerite saw it too. "Could this day get any better?" she muttered.

"Run!" he shouted, but the top layer of soil was already collapsing, crashing down in an unstoppable rush of mud and debris. Marguerite screamed something unintelligible as he grabbed her arm and propelled them both forward, shoving her ahead of him in the last second before the mudslide hit. 

Then his legs were swept out from underneath him and he went down hard, sucked down under the rolling wave of noise and darkness until he was slammed against an unforgiving surface. The other side of the ravine, he recognized dimly, trying to claw his way to the surface. But there was a sharp pain in his head and a heavy weight on his leg and he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't—

The last thing he heard was Marguerite's terrified voice, screaming his name.

### 1923

"Coffee's ready." Marguerite whirled to find Roxton standing in the doorway, cup in hand. He raised an eyebrow. "Would you like it at the table or in bed?"

Incorrigible man! Marguerite swept past him, leading the way to the kitchen. "I think the table will be fine, thank you. No need to make a mess in bed." She met his raised eyebrow with one of her own. "...yet." Two could play at this flirting game. She hadn't lost her wits entirely.

But Roxton merely laughed and gallantly pulled out a chair for her before turning back to the stove where she could already smell something delicious cooking. 

Marguerite sipped her coffee—which was quite good, damn him— and watched him move with confidence around the small space. They'd been living together for several months now, but she'd rarely seen him so casual. Barefoot, shirt hanging loose, chin dark with stubble and hair still mussed from his pillow. It _was_ appealing, she admitted. She could see why her older self had decided to take this pleasant diversion from what must otherwise be a trying existence. 

Three years on the plateau! Three years with no fine wine, no hot baths. No new music or conversation partners. She must be going mad.

"There you are. A full English, a la the plateau."

This turned out to be toast, eggs, some sort of root vegetable she didn't recognize, a thick slice of meat she was all too sure she did and—

"Tomatoes?" she gasped, taking a bite. She hadn't had a decent tomato in months, but this one was perfect—juicy sweetness bursting in her mouth.

"Mm, we've managed a particularly good group this year," Roxton said, digging into his own plate with relish. "Finn just might make a decent farmer yet."

Marguerite frowned. "Who?"

Roxton looked up, surprised, and she instantly realized her mistake. Whoever this Finn was, the Marguerite of this time period obviously already knew him. She was opening her mouth to make an excuse when the treehouse lift creaked into motion, drawing Roxton's attention. Marguerite let out a small breath of relief.

"Speak of the devil," he said, then cast her a significant look, reaching down to lay a casual hand on his gun. "They're early."

Marguerite tensed, but when the lift arrived, it held only Challenger, hair a little longer than she remembered, but otherwise looking much the same. He stepped briskly into the room, an absent look on his face.

"Good morning, George," Roxton called to him, eyebrow raised, and Challenger pulled up short.

"Oh, John, Marguerite," he said, running a sheepish hand over his face. "Forgive me, I, um, didn't expect you would be up yet." 

Marguerite tightened the belt on her robe, face heating a little. Certainly in a house this small, there could be no hiding anything for long, but she hoped her older self was usually a little more discreet.

Roxton shot her a rueful look. "Neither did I, believe me. Everything all right? I thought you were planning to spend the day with Finn at the Zanga festival."

"What? Oh, yes, yes. There's just been some rather interesting phenomenon I'd like to investigate and I thought perhaps I could sneak into the lab to grab my magnetometer without disturbing you." He glanced at Marguerite's robe. "I do, uh, apologize."

Roxton sat up, looking more alarmed than Marguerite thought the situation called for. "What kind of phenomenon, exactly?"

Challenger seemed to understand his apprehension. "Not more time bubbles, not to worry."

"Then what? I thought things were supposed to be back to normal now that Veronica… did what she did."

"That's what I aim to find out." Challenger's voice settled into a familiar, lecturing cadence, and Marguerite stifled a smile. It was a relief to know _some_ things hadn't changed, even if every other word coming out of their mouths sounded like nonsense. "You see, since Veronica stabilized the plateau, there have been energy lines manifesting in different areas. I noticed my compass wasn't working in a particular area by the river. I'm certain one of the new lines is there, and if we can devise a way to follow it back to its source—"

"Oh, Challenger," Roxton groaned. "This was supposed to be a simple holiday for everyone! Not an excuse to delve into the mysteries of the plateau!"

"And it's been a lovely time! Finn's enjoying herself so much, she's going to stay another night with the Zanga. But surely you must see this takes precedence."

"Surely." Roxton sighed. "Well, if you're going, then we'd better go along with you."

Challenger scoffed. "There's no need to interrupt your plans, my boy. None of these energy lines has been dangerous so far."

Roxton's look to her was apologetic. "Still, I don't like you going back alone. Haven't we just had a valuable lesson on how dangerous that can be?"

Challenger shook his head. "Well, if you truly mean to come, then I'll pack some extra equipment. I want to check the barometric pressure along the edge of the line. Think of what we can learn if we take enough readings!" 

"Roxton!" Marguerite hissed as Challenger disappeared down into his lab, no doubt to grab a dozen heavy instruments that _she_ would be expected to carry.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. You wouldn't let him go wandering off on his own any more than I would."

She snorted. "The hell I wouldn't! If Challenger wants to spend his day chasing invisible lines in the ground, then that's his business. No reason to drag me into it."

Roxton gave her a strange look. "You're the one who made the rule we stick together now with Veronica busy in Avalon and Ned wandering God knows where."

Time travel was one thing, but now she was supposed to believe Veronica was off in some place straight out of Arthurian legend and meek Ned Malone was wandering the jungle alone?

"Well, what about Summerlee?" she asked to cover her confusion. "Can't he go with Challenger? This science stuff seems more like his kind of thing, anyway."

"Summerlee…" Now Roxton looked confused for some reason. "You think his presence may be stronger on these lines of Challenger's? It's an interesting thought, but I doubt we can count on it."

_What?_

"Oh, yes. Of course," she said faintly. "What was I thinking?"

Roxton rose to his feet and walked around the table, bending down to kiss her softly. Marguerite's lips parted in surprise at the casual sweetness of it, eyes fluttering closed despite herself. "I'll make it to you later, I promise," he murmured. "When Veronica gets back, we'll have the wedding and a proper honeymoon. No interruptions allowed." 

Marguerite's eyes popped open, jaw dropping open. Perhaps this really was a dream. Because there was no future she could imagine where Lord John Roxton would ever consent to marry _her_ —a penniless, nameless con woman without a past.

Fortunately, Roxton had already turned to walk away, oblivious to her inner turmoil. "Better get dressed," he called behind him. "You know how impatient Challenger gets when there's a scientific mystery to investigate."

Marguerite swallowed hard, retreating to her room and dressing in a daze. If this was a dream, it was a cruel one. And if it wasn't… she imagined her older self was already back at the treehouse, settling in for a relaxing afternoon. Meanwhile she was stuck following Challenger around on a wild goose chase, tormented by things she could never have. One of them had certainly gotten the better half of that bargain.

### 1919

"Roxton!" Marguerite screamed again, staggering through the knee high mud to the place where her fiancé lay. Even knowing that this would happen, the sight of him, crumpled and unmoving was terrifying. She'd barely missed the worst of the flow, turning just in time to see the wave of mud dash him against the rocks. He hadn't moved since.

She tripped over an unseen obstacle, falling heavily next to him with a cry. Roxton still wasn't moving. She shrugged off her pack and grabbed for him, but it was difficult to get a solid grip. Finally, after a moment of futile flailing, she managed to pull him up out of the sucking grasp of the mud. His entire body was covered in the stuff. His eyes were closed, and for one heartstopping moment, she wasn't sure if he was breathing. 

"Come on," she said, hooking her arms around him more solidly and hauling him up. "Roxton, wake up, you great stupid man, you are not dying here today, do you hear me?"

"M'not dead," he croaked, and she nearly cried with relief. "Stop shouting."

She laughed a little hysterically, hugging him back against her chest. He leaned against her, and she clumsily wiped the mud from his face to press a kiss to the side of his head. "You idiot. Only you would nearly get yourself killed and rip a hole in the fabric of time out of sheer stubbornness."

He coughed weakly. "What are you babbling about?"

"Nothing," she said, hugging him again with a shiver. Reading the account of this in her journal was nothing like living through it. She should have tried harder to make him stay at the cave, danger to the timeline be damned.

It was still pouring, and as the rain washed more of the mud away, streaks of red had started cascading down his forehead. "You're bleeding!" she exclaimed, feeling gingerly around his hairline. 

He winced. "A rock must have caught me. I'm all right, Marguerite. Head wounds just bleed a lot."

Right. And that meant more trouble was on its way. They had to move. Marguerite took a deep breath, then wrapped her arms under his and began pulling again. But instantly, Roxton cried out.

"Stop!" he wheezed. "Stop, something's got my leg trapped."

Cursing, she laid him back down as gently as she could, then knelt, feeling around in the mud where his legs must be. After a moment, her hand grasped his knee, and they both gasped in relief. She following it down. "I can feel it," she said after a moment. "It's a branch, I think."

Roxton pointed at another branch sticking out of the mud a few paces away. It looked substantial enough, perhaps. "There," he said, voice pained. "Try some leverage."

Marguerite hauled the branch over and dug it into the mud, shooting Roxton an apologetic look as she accidentally jabbed him before making contact with her target. After a minute of pushing, it shifted just enough for him to pull his ankle free. Marguerite dropped her branch and sat down heavily, grabbing his legs and helping him lift them out of the mud.

Roxton hissed as she touched the ankle that had been trapped. "Gently, gently."

"Do you want gently or do you want to get out of here?" Marguerite grunted, pulling again until both legs popped free.

They both lay there for a moment in exhaustion. "There," he said, panting. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Catching motion from the corner of her eye, Marguerite went very still. "John," she said. 

"I mean, it was a little touch and go there for a minute. And I think my ankle might be broken. But we're still alive and that's got to count for something."

"John," she said again, more urgently, grabbing at his sleeve. 

He looked at her sharply, then followed her gaze to the mouth of the ravine. A raptor stood watching them with curious, intelligent, _hungry_ eyes. The blood she thought. They could smell it from a mile away.

"Damn," he said softly, feeling at his waist. "I don't have my guns, do you?"

"I lost the rifle in the slide," she said. "But I still have my pistol."

"If it will fire."

"It will."

Roxton looked at her sharply. She said it with too much certainty, she knew. Well, there was no help for it now. 

"It better. Otherwise we're in trouble."

She turned her head to look behind them, knowing what she'd see: three more raptors standing at the other end, blocking the way home. 

"Roxton."

"I see them," he said, slowly reaching toward her. The raptors cocked their heads, tracking the movement as she handed the pistol to him. The one on the right whistled, and others trilled back. The bloody creatures were too damn smart, and getting smarter all the time. "Get up. Very slowly."

Marguerite rose to her feet, grabbing her pack and pulling it on. Luckily, the mud had started to disperse, only ankle deep now. Roxton followed her with significantly less grace, tottering to keep his weight off his bad foot, and she reached out a hand to steady him. Bloody rain water was running into his eyes. If she didn't know how this turned out, she'd think it would be a miracle if he hit anything. But then, John Roxton excelled at miracles.

The lead raptor whistled again and the other three crouched down and darted forward with a screech. Marguerite took a breath and said a quick prayer as Roxton shot—one, twice—and one of them fell. The others paused, either at the sound or the sight of their compatriot's fate.

"Get ready to run," he ordered. "Straight to the treehouse. I'll distract them as long as I can."

Marguerite shot him an incredulous look. "And leave you here? You'll be killed!"

"Now is not the time to discover selflessness, Marguerite," Roxton said, sounding strained. "I can't go far on this ankle and I've only got a few bullets left, so you need to run."

Stupid, selfless, _wonderful_ man.

"Less talking, more shooting," she snapped, and stooped to pick up the branch she dropped earlier. 

The other raptors were moving before he had time to argue any more. Roxton shot and missed twice more, and then they were upon them. At close range, the third hit true, the raptor staggering to the side with a scream. Marguerite hit it with her makeshift club for good measure, and it finally fell to the ground. 

It's companion nosed at it, and then dug in with no seeming hesitation. 

"There's loyalty for you," Marguerite said, sounding slightly hysterical even to her own ears. 

Roxton raise his gun to take it out as well, but this time when he pulled the trigger, nothing happened.

"Blast! It's jammed."

"Well, maybe don't tell them that," Marguerite said, and sure enough, the lead raptor had come closer, beady little eyes were fixed on Roxton's trigger finger, as if the wretched beast actually understood the mechanism. 

He carefully raised the pistol to point at it again. "Oh no you don't, you bastard. Come on, I'm still a threat, aren't I?" 

The raptor watched them intently, then turned with a sudden scream, moving past them to join the other in its feast. The two remaining raptors were now firmly blocking the way to the treehouse.

He nudged Marguerite and she slipped a shoulder under his arm. "Let's not tempt fate," he said. "Back to that cave before it changes it mind."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

### 1923

In the short time she'd spent on the plateau, Marguerite had already wasted plenty of days traipsing after one of Challenger's scientific mysteries. This day was the same in many ways, and yet somehow also completely different. Marguerite walked along in a daze as Challenger took readings and lectured explanations of his findings, the words _a wedding and a proper honeymoon_ echoing through her mind.

Roxton walked beside her, relaxed, but rifle at the ready. She could periodically feel his eyes on her, but he didn't say anything about her obvious distraction—just wordlessly took the pack from her shoulders right when it was becoming heavy enough to bother her, passed her the water bottle just as she was realizing she was thirsty, took her hand without asking when they had to climb over a group of boulders. 

His regard was unceasing, yet not, she thought, as suffocating as she might once have imagined. 

When they got back to the treehouse that evening, Challenger immediately disappeared into his lab, muttering about charts and analysis. Marguerite turned to find Roxton looking at her intently.

"What," Marguerite said, feeling suddenly awkward. She raised a hand to her cheek. "Something on my face?"

"You're not wearing your ring," he said, a hint of hurt in his voice.

Her eyes widened. Of course there was an engagement ring. Why hadn't she thought to look for it? 

"I… didn't want to lose it," she lied.

Roxton's face took on a determined expression. "Marguerite, you've been acting strangely all day. No, don't deny it," he said quickly as she opened her mouth. "There's something bothering you. Now, you don't have to tell me what it is. But don't tell me it's all in my head."

"It's not," she acknowledged, and watched the tension bleed out of him. "You're right. There has been something on my mind."

He nodded. "Then just tell me this. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, John." She tried to put on her most reassuring smile. 

"No more deadly secrets from your past come to kill us all?"

She startled. Could he know about—

"Because you should know by now that I'll stand by your side no matter what it is, if you just tell me—"

"John," she interrupted, overwhelmed. "Nothing like that, I promise. I just… needed some time to think, that's all."

"I see," Roxton said, watching her carefully. "And do you need more time?" 

She could tell him yes, she realized. And he would leave her be, though it hurt him. 

Suddenly, she found she didn't want to.

"You know," she said, coming to a decision, "I don't think that I do." Until the words came out, she hadn't known how true they were. She wound her arms around his neck, shocked at how right it felt.

Roxton stepped closer, resting possessive hands on her hips. "Is that so?" 

She hummed agreement. "In fact, Lord Roxton, I think right now I'd like you to help me stop thinking."

"Your wish is my command, future Lady Roxton," he murmured against her lips, then proceeded to kiss her quite thoroughly.

"Well," she said, when she'd gotten her breath back. "That was a good start, but I think perhaps you'll need to work a little harder."

Roxton's mouth fell open in mock offense. "Cheeky little minx!" he accused, then bent to sweep her up into a bridal carry, ignoring her shriek of laughter. 

"John!"

"I'll show you working hard," Roxton huffed, striding into her bedroom and dropping them both onto the bed.

Marguerite oofed, the breath momentarily knocked out of her. Roxton cupped her face in his hands. 

"Oh Marguerite," he said, serious and fond. "I do love you." 

Her breath quickened. "Then show me," she said.

And he did. Quite thoroughly.

Downstairs in his lab, Challenger smiled to himself and turned the gramophone on a little louder.

Some time later, Marguerite slipped from the bed, pleasantly wrung out, and padded across the room on silent feet. Roxton shifted, but didn't wake, murmuring in his sleep. She soothed him with a hand on his arm, then reached for her journal. 

Skipping to the last entry she wrote, she took a deep breath and turned the page. From the looks of it, this entry had been read many times before, the pages worn and soft. Marguerite's eyes widened as she read ahead, turning to stare at Roxton's sleeping form again.

"Oh my," she said.

### 1919

The cave wasn't far, but once the immediate danger was past, Roxton clearly lost whatever adrenaline had been keeping him up before. By the time they found the entrance, he was leaning almost all his weight on Marguerite, breath coming in an unpleasant wheeze. 

Marguerite leaned him against the entrance and took her gun back. "Wait here."

"Now where are you going?"

"We need something to stop the bleeding and lower that fever."

"What fever—Marguerite, get back here," he hissed. "Those raptors could be back any second!"

"That's why I have to collect this now." Ignoring him, she marched over to a tree whose features she'd long since memorized—exactly where the journal had promised it would be—and began bashing at the bark with the butt of the pistol. Soon, a reddish sap was dripping, and Marguerite ripped a piece of her shirt to collect it.

She returned to him cradling it carefully. "Blood of the dragon," she told him. "It will seal your wound and reduce inflammation."

Roxton gaped. "How on earth do you know that?"

"Summerlee, of course," she said briskly, not meeting his eyes. There was a screech in the distance, and she met his eyes with alarm. "Inside, quickly."

They squeezed through the tiny crack, thankfully too small for the raptors to follow. Inside, the cave widened, though not much, the dim light revealing a small space with a low roof and a floor covered in loose, scattered twigs—perhaps the remains of some creature's long abandoned nest. Still cradling the precious sap with one hand, Marguerite eased Roxton down and propped him against the wall, then dug into her pocket with the other, pulling out a carefully wrapped bundle: matches, relatively dry and untouched. 

Roxton was watching her with considering eyes. "You are full of surprises, Marguerite."

She suppressed a smile. "More than you know, Lord Roxton."

Soon she had a fire going, and the small cave was lit by its comforting glow. Marguerite shivered in her sopping clothes, glad for warmth, then turned to Roxton. 

He'd grown quiet while she worked, and now he tracked her movements with dull, glassy eyes as she undid the laces of his boot and eased it off his injured foot. Despite her attempt to be gentle, he hissed at the movement. Underneath, his ankle was purple and badly swollen. 

She tsked. "Won't be running on this for a while." Looking around, she spotted a good sized rock and pulled it over, resting his foot on top to elevate it. "Now let's take a look at the rest of you."

She ripped another piece of her wet shirt and dabbed at the cut on his forehead. In the flickering firelight, it was hard to see how bad it was, but it was still bleeding a little, and quite filthy from the mud. She cleaned it out as best she could, murmuring apologies at his grunts of pain. 

When her hand brushed his skin, it was hot to the touch, and he moaned softly. "You're running a fever. This will help," she told him, reaching for the sap. "Hopefully," she whispered to herself.

She rubbed the sap against her palm until it formed a thin paste, then smeared it across the wound as gently as she could, the resin staining his skin a dull, reddish brown.

"Anywhere else?"

With what seemed like an alarming amount of effort, Roxton lifted a hand to his side.

She pulled aside his vest to find a long tear in his shirt, and an equally long tear in the skin underneath, angry and red. She hissed softly. This was no doubt the source of the infection. Removing his shirt, she repeated the procedure, cleaning and covering the wound with resin.

By the time she was done, Roxton was slumped to the side, obviously barely holding onto consciousness. With some prodding, Marguerite managed to maneuver him so his head was on her lap, and his eyes finally fluttered closed. Shirtless, he looked even more vulnerable.

"We were supposed to be having a lovely day together, you know," she told his unconscious form, stroking her fingers through his too long, dirty hair. "Breakfast in bed and the whole treehouse to ourselves for once." 

But that Roxton was still waiting for her, she reminded herself. That life was still waiting for her, provided she could play her part here in the past. 

It grew darker outside, the storm still going as afternoon faded into evening. Marguerite fed more twigs to the fire and watched as Roxton twitched in his sleep, lost in the grip of some feverish nightmare only he could see.

Suddenly, his eyes opened, staring wide and terrified into the gloom. "Marguerite!" he gasped, sitting up. "Run, you have to run…"

He cut off with a groan, and Marguerite mopped at his sweaty forehead, careful to avoid his wound. "Shh… you're dreaming, Roxton. There's nothing there."

"Please, Marguerite," he begged, "Please!"

She gathered him close, kissing his head. "I will never leave you behind, John Roxton. You don't believe that yet, but you will someday."

He shuddered, dropping his head to her shoulder. When he lifted it again, his gaze focused on her with intensity. "Marguerite," he said, and raised a trembling hand to her cheek.

For a moment, he looked so like her John, and Marguerite couldn't help herself. She caught his hand and pressed it to her lips. 

"Please," Roxton whispered, and curled his other hand around her neck, pulling her to him. Marguerite hesitated, but there was no part of her that could stand to turn him away when he needed her. She kissed him tenderly, pouring all her love and her terror of losing him into the touch of her lips. 

After a moment, Roxton pulled back, looking at her in wonderment. Marguerite smiled at him. "Go to sleep, my love," she said, easing him back down to her lap.

Roxton began to obey, but then the fever twisted, and his eyes sharpened in distrust. "You're not my Marguerite," he accused. "Who are you?"

The words felt like a blow, though she knew it was only the fever. Except he was right, in a sense. When she closed her eyes, she could pretend this was the man who loved her back, a man who'd spent three years proving his devotion despite all the obstacles thrown in their way. But she _wasn't_ his Marguerite, and something in him must know that. She shook her head, trying to reassure him. "I'm right here."

"No," he insisted, looking around wildly. "Where is she? What have you done to her?"

If he'd had more strength, she might have been in trouble, but after struggling for a few moments, he collapsed back against her, muttering incoherently.

"You're wrong, John," she murmured after he'd fallen back into an uneasy sleep. "I've always been your Marguerite. Even if I didn't know it yet."

It was several tense hours before Marguerite laid a hand on his forehead and finally found it cool, his cries quieted at last. Breathing a sigh of relief, she reached for her pack, pulling out the second bundle she'd protectively wrapped before they set out this morning. Her journal was inside, dry and safe, along with a pencil. 

Casting another look at Roxton, she began to write the words she'd long since memorized.

_By now you'll know this was not a dream, so commit these words to your heart, as they will save your life one day, in more ways than one._

_We set out this morning in the sun, but the day quickly turned to rain…_

After finishing the instructions, she laid her head back and drifted off to sleep.

When she woke up, she was in her own bed again.

### 1923

"So, the woman I made love to last night…" Roxton said slowly.

"That woman was me. But me from three years ago."

Roxton took that in. "And the kiss we shared in the cave…" he trailed off again, a strange expression on his face.

"Was only the first kiss for you," she finished. Then smiled and leaned forward to lessen the sting of that deception. "But still, Lord Roxton, a very good kiss."

Roxton stood and paced across the room and back. Marguerite let him work it through in silence. Sometimes that was just what Roxton needed. Finally, he turned to her and asked, slightly plaintive: "Why did you never tell me any of this, warn me?"

Marguerite sighed. Of course that would be his first question. "I thought about it. Obviously. But when it happened to me three years ago, you clearly didn't know. Which meant future me never told you and if _I_ told you, it would change events.

"A paradox," Roxton murmured. 

"Just so." He looked thoughtful, but still set to argue, so she added softly, "Besides, it was good for her. Being with you, I mean. The you that loves me."

Roxton stared at her, then barked out a laugh. At her look, he explained in a softer tone, "After all this time, you still don't understand. I always loved you, even then."

Marguerite's breath caught. 

"I remember that day, you know," he confessed, catching her hand and placing a kiss on the inside of her wrist. "We'd fought. Viciously. I was furious with you and you didn't seem to care—"

"I cared," she murmured. "More than I cared to admit."

"Well, you were very good at hiding it. But the next day, something was different."

"The next day, I was desperately trying not to get you killed."

"You saved me," he told her. "In more ways than one." He smiled. "And then you kissed me."

" _You_ kissed _me_ —"

"And I was never sure whether or not it was a dream. But, I thought, for the first time, maybe I had a chance with the hard-hearted Miss Krux."

A flash of light caught her eye. She reached over and picked up her engagement ring from the bedside table, a simple one he'd traded for with a neighboring tribe. But easily the most precious piece she owned. "More than a chance, I'd say." 

Roxton stopped her, taking the ring and sliding it onto her finger himself.

"Welcome home," he said softly. And after that, neither of them spoke for some time.

A while later, they lay tangled together under the sheets, Roxton's arms curved around her belly, while Marguerite's foot idly stroking up and down his leg.

"And now, I suppose there's only one thing left to do," she mused.

"Oh, and what's that?"

She reached for her skirt where it had fallen on the floor, and pulled the tiny red gem she'd kept hidden all these years out of its pocket. "Get rid of this before it causes any more mischief."

Roxton raised an eyebrow. "Marguerite Krux voluntarily giving up a precious gemstone? This has been a day of firsts."

"As much as I enjoyed that little jaunt to the past, I'd much rather stay in the here and now from now on."

Roxton hugged her closer. "I fully agree. We've all done enough jumping through time to last a lifetime. Or more."

She nods. "Which is why I'm going to find the deepest, darkest hole on the plateau and toss this in."

"Oh, no, no no, Marguerite. You stole that jewel, and if you don't want it anymore, we're going to take it back where it belongs."

He was wearing his determined face. There were ways around that face, but she found, oddly, that she didn't really want to argue. It felt right, somehow, to return the jewel. But that didn't mean giving up completely.

"All right," she conceded. "But, Roxton, this time? Let's take the balloon."

Roxton shivered. "Agreed."

### Epilogue

Marguerite woke on the hard ground of a cave, shafts of daylight streaking through the smoking remains of a fire, and John Roxton asleep on her lap, bloody and bruised. She was filthy, her whole body ached, and she felt strangely bereft.

She was back where she belonged. 

Her journal was sitting beside her. Marguerite took a deep breath and flipped through the pages until she found the last entry. The hand was hers, and the words familiar, although she knew she hadn't written them. Not yet, at least. A thought struck her, and she groped in her pocket, sighing in relief to find the small stone still there.

Roxton's eyes fluttered open at the motion. "Marguerite," he said, voice hoarse, and she suddenly felt herself in two places at once, the echo of his future self—the man she'd left sleeping in her bed—so plainly visible in the man before her.

He looked around the cave, then sent her a searching look. "So it wasn't a dream." 

"No," she said, and found herself smiling. "It wasn't."

Three and a half years later, Marguerite knelt before the Salusa priestess, a dignified old woman in flowing, colorful robes, and pulled the stone from her pocket. 

"This belongs to you," she said in the formal tones of the Salusa language, the words appearing in her mind the way they always seemed to when she needed them. "I offer my apologies for the wrong I have done you."

The priestess took the stone from her, then grasped Marguerite's chin in her other hand. Marguerite froze, but the woman merely looked at her for a long moment.

Finally, she nodded, releasing her. "It has fulfilled its purpose," she said. "You are a wiser woman than you were when you took it."

Marguerite let out a slow breath. "Yes," she said and looked at Roxton. Though he couldn't understand what had been said, he took her hand and squeezed it gently. "I really think I am."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, mari4212! I loved your prompt and hope you enjoy what I did with it. Thanks for giving me an excuse to rewatch this wonderful, ridiculous show. :)
> 
> \- I took a lot of inspiration from the [the season four summary](http://www.reeves-stevens.com/TLWSUMMARY1.pdf) put out by the writers.  
> \- Title is of course from [Cyndi Lauper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdQY7BusJNU).


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